Mom and Dad did grab a nap. James and I lazed around the cabin, alternating between discussing video games and trying to hit each other with tiny paper balls. When our parents emerged from their bedroom looking less puffy around the eyes, Mom pointed at the ten thousand paper balls dotting the thinning carpet. We scooted around, on hands and knees on carpeting that had little to no padding under it. When your knee rubbed the green rug, a soft dank smell rose up to your nose, forcing its way into your sinuses like an unwanted hug from your uncle who reeks of body odor.

  “Honestly, you’d think you two were still in knee pants.” Mom sighed then giggled. “Oh! Listen to me! I sound like one of the original guests!”

  “You’re one fine looking dame,” Dad growled in his best gangster impression. Mom snorted and waved him off. They did this a lot. Giggled and joked and blushed when one got a little randy. It was nice to have parents who still loved each other. Most of my friend’s parents were distant or divorced. “Want to go neck in the rumble seat?”

  Mom laughed. James couldn’t stand it anymore and leaped to his feet and announced he was taking his Blackberry—a phone exactly like mine just a different color—to the main lodge to find some Wi-Fi if God were being kind.

  “Let’s head up as well,” Mom said while I dumped a handful of itty-bitty paper balls into a trash can by the blackened hearth. “Let me grab my sweater and we’ll mosey along and soak in the Silver Fir atmosphere.”

  I bobbed my head. She looked at me tenderly.

  “Thanks for making an effort, son,” Dad whispered by the front door as we waited for Mom to find a sweater and touch up her lipstick. “You never know…that perfect person might be right here on the Silver Fir grounds just waiting to talk to you again.”

  His wink was enough to send me out onto the porch to wait, arms folded over my T-shirt, glancing at the other guest cabins peppered along the wide gravel path.

  “Are you hungry?” Mom asked a moment later, stepping out of the door to stand beside me. “I could eat a horse. Oh, we’re going to have to ask about the nearest church.”

  “We’ll ask Bonnie,” Dad replied, locking the door and pocketing the lone key. “She seems to have a good knowledge of the lodge.”

  Mom nodded in agreement. I pushed my hands into my front pockets, carefully making sure not to comment on Bonnie or her knowledge. Mom slid her hand into the crook of my arm, and we made our way back to the main lodge, talking about school and grades and the size of the pool across the river.

  Once inside the main lodge, we followed the other guests into a massive dining hall, filled with tables covered in white linen cloths and long buffet tables. Each table looked to seat a dozen or so people. Staff members milled around. All of them were dressed in tan shorts and royal blue polo shirts. White sneakers and short white socks with no distinguishing signs of individuality such as tattoos or gaudy jewelry. I did see several crosses around necks, as well as a few Stars of David, but other than those tasteful tiny religious trinkets, you couldn’t tell one from the other at first glance.

  Most of the servers were young, probably college age, some perhaps a little older but most not past thirty. I wondered how much they were paid to be cheery and mundane to all the middle-income guests. For sure, no one I’d seen here looked to be upper class. There were dump trucks full of costume jewelry as well as hundreds of what I would bet my first month’s food program vouchers on were those cubic zirconia tennis bracelets that are sold on TV shopping channels. The sparkle was a little too sparkly, the flash a little too flashy. Real wealth didn’t advertise the bangles like these women were.

  “Is this lodge filled with nothing but middle-class, white, suburban Catholics who are trying to appear to be upper-class, Manhattan Jews?” I asked my father as we sat down. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. My mother’s lips tightened into a tight angry pucker.

  “Dane! By all that is holy!” Dad gasped, pushing Mom’s chair in with a little too much gusto. “Sorry, honey.” He walked to his chair next to me and sat down. “I’m not sure where you get your radical thoughts. First it was that earring and now this kind of talk. He gets them from your side of the family.” Dad sniffed and got an epic eye roll from my mother. “Your father’s cousin Jeff in particular. Writing all those articles for Rolling Stone magazine about legalizing marijuana. I told you not to let him read those when he was young.”

  “I was sixteen, Dad, hardly young,” I argued as the argument about Uncle Jeff the racial liberal loomed on the horizon. “And it’s the truth. Legalizing pot would—”

  “Dane, that is more than enough. We’re not going to stir up a hornet’s nest here the first day,” Dad said through tightly clenched teeth.

  “Don’t you mean a wasp’s nest? Seems more fitting.”

  Dad’s look was scorching. Mom ignored. James sniggered and got a sour look. “Maybe you should take a walk. When you come back, you can apologize to your mother for being flip.”

  I stood up and stalked out of the dining room. Bonnie waved but I blew past her, intent on the double doors that would get me outside. Why was it such a crime to speak the truth? I shoved on the heavy doors and raged through them, eager to walk off some of this anger. This was a familiar scenario. Dad always made us walk off our anger before he would discuss things with us. Which, I guess, makes sense, but sometimes I wanted to argue. I wanted to shout and wave my finger in the air like an orchestra conductor does his wand. I wanted to debate vital themes and ideas. Discuss new ways to live and act, talk about social injustice and how disillusioned my generation was. Sometimes I wanted to stand on the table, feet planted on both sides of the pot roast, and bellow down at my family that I was gay.

  But I never did.

  I simply stormed off and swallowed it all down. Which was why I longed to be in Europe with the enlightened people. Sipping hot chocolate with Swedes, talking about sex with Danes, and dancing until dawn with Berliners. Being who I was without fear of censure or rebuke or dismay from everyone around me.

  Gray gravel crunching under my sneakers, which were from a strip mall that sold knockoffs of the expensive ones, I paused where the path branched off. One thin lane led to a bridge that arched over the river. There was a weathered signpost with wooden slabs stating which way to the pool or the lodge or the golf course.

  Over the other bridge was the pool and tennis courts. It was a sturdy way across, all tight wood planks with a wooden rail. Yet as soon as I thought of crossing it, I felt a tingle of fear. Bridges sometimes gave me trouble because they ran over…this will be shocking…water. Even a docile creek like this one could make me feel woozy, but if I focused on anything but the water, I could generally cross. Big bridges crossing massive waterways were another story and forget suspension bridges. Although this bridge did indeed seem sturdy and the water under it was relatively shallow, sweat still beaded up on my brow.

  I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and threw nervous looks around to see if anyone had witnessed my shame. The only person I saw was on the other side, running at full speed, his upper body bare to the sun. He thundered across the bridge, his sandals in one hand and shirt in the other. I danced back out of his way, bumping into the signpost.

  “Tell me they haven’t started serving yet,” he panted as he neared. His voice was deep and rich with a subtle British accent. It was quite pleasing, and I smiled despite myself at the horrible scowl on his face. When he returned the smile, I grabbed tight to the signpost behind me. He was incredibly handsome with thick black hair, a rather long but proud nose that looked perfect on him, and a forehead that was higher than most. His eyes were darkest brown and his skin the shade of a roasted cashew. Around his thick neck was a necklace with a crescent moon and star dangling from the silver chain. “Bloody hell, they have started serving, haven’t they? Damn Kurt is always late to relieve me.” He slid his feet into his sandals as he spoke.

  “About ten minutes ago.”

  “Well, won’t be the first time I’ve been late to the kitchen. Won’t be the last either. You a lodger?” He pulled his shirt on and then held out a large hand. I gently placed mine into his, my palm a little sticky but he didn’t seem to mind. “Foods up that way.” He jerked his head over his shoulder. “Khalid Novak. Lifeguard by day, celery chopper by night.”

  His joke kind of hung there in the air until I snorted in a loud, piggish way that made my ears burn.

  “Yeah, I just uh…was walking to build up my appetite.”

  His teeth flashed white. My fingers gripped the sturdy old wooden pole tighter. God but he was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen. Tall, lean, dark, and handsome. He dropped my hand after a long shake, his stare holding mine amiably.

  “Place is a bit dingy, but they do put out some good food. Better get in there before they come looking for me.”

  I didn’t want him to leave. I’d never spoken to a man quite like him before. He was beautiful and foreign and filled with the wonders of the world that I had only dreamed of. “Are you British?”

  Wow, Dane, that was stellar. Maybe you could ask him if he breathes air next. Moron.

  “What gave me away? Was it my Union Jack socks?”

  I glanced down at his bare toes wiggling around in his battered sandals.

  “You’re not wearing socks,” I pointed out.

  Khalid winked at me, his lips twitching with mirth. “I was joking. You got a name?”

  “Dane Forrester.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Dane. Now, I best stop fannying about and get to work or Brutus will dock my pay. Feel free to come see me at the pool tomorrow. I’ll be there from nine to five.”

  With that Khalid Novak ran off, his sandals flapping against rough heels, his long legs eating up the distance to the main lodge with a runner’s ease. Or perhaps that should be swimmer’s ease, although swimmers don’t run they swim. Hmmm. Maybe an athlete’s ease would sound better. Yes, I think it would. I didn’t—couldn’t—move until he was out of sight. And then, my steps were weak and wibbly like a freshly born lamb. Maybe it was the small bout of aquaphobia, but I suspected my wobbliness had more to do with the man I had just met.

  Chapter Two

  Sleeping under James sucked. He snored in that vibrating septum droney way of his, and his rolling side to side made the slats of the bed over me creak. After about two hours of lying there waiting for the rotted pine slats to break and James to come crashing down on me, my slight fear of death by brother crushing led me to pull the mattress to the floor and stretch out there. Another hour later, I pulled the mattress out onto the small slate porch and slept under the stars. With the door closed all I heard was the creek and the love songs of ten thousand peepers. It was a much better concerto than the one James was leading. Wrapping up in my blanket, I lay on my side, my gaze on the trees along the creek bank. Lying there in that murky land between awake and asleep, my thoughts slowed and meandered much like the river. Allowing myself to mentally float along, I found myself thinking about Khalid.

  A sigh escaped me. It was a soft sigh, barely audible with the frogs and toads sighing and singing, but I heard it. It made me frown a bit. Should I be sighing about a man who I had spent a whole two and a half minutes with? Obviously not but I couldn’t shake free of his vision in my memory. Of how he spoke and moved. I wondered where he was from in Great Britain, what he was doing here of all places, and what was the significance of that necklace of his.

  I also ruminated if his hair was as soft as it appeared, if his feet felt as rough as they looked, and if I needed some sort of intervention. Forcing myself to stop thinking about Khalid and his outgoing smile, I closed my eyes and breathed. Listening to each inhalation and exhalation and centering on it. This was a familiar method for me to use when I was anxious or in a phobic state. Instantly the yogic breathing began to work, and soon I drifted into sleep.

  It was the first shaft of sunlight peeking through the trees that woke me. Blinking at the sunbeam in my face, I mumbled incoherently and sat up, my blanket slipping off one bare shoulder. My back was stiff. I yawned, stretched, and saw something move across the river. Not knowing what it could be at this early hour—it had to be around five a.m. or so—I wrestled to free myself from the twin-sized comforter and got to my feet. The slate stones were damp and cool under my naked soles. One step and then another and I was that much closer to the river. A man in loose white pants stood on the bank on the other side. I slipped quickly behind a rough-barked oak tree to avoid being seen spying. Peeking around the trunk, I saw him take off his shoes and throw them on the bank beside him. Then, carefully, as the bank was mud and wet stones, he eased himself into the burbling water. He began washing himself in a kind of robotic manner, seemingly every cleansing done in sets of threes. When he looked my way, I was thrilled and shocked to see that it was Khalid. What was he doing playing in the creek at the first touch of dawn?

  After a careful wash, he scurried back up the bank and picked up something. He unfurled a small red rug with short tassels. He raised his hands up to his ears, and I shifted back behind the tree, suddenly feeling like some sort of vile voyeur. Was he doing yoga? Why outside by the river? Was he praying? Why not in church if that was what he was doing? I wanted to go back inside and forget I’d blundered into this most private of moments. What a man said to God was confidential. I hid behind that tree for a moment or two thinking about my own religious routines.

  My time talking to God usually went quickly because I wasn’t sure if he were listening or cared about what a gay kid from Cheltenham had to say. According to my church, God felt I was kind of a sickly perverted monster for wanting to kiss other guys. I tried to skip services whenever possible, but Mom made us go. Sure, I did what was required but felt nothing inside me for the whole production. Yet another reason I had so wanted to tour Europe. No early morning masses, no Saturday confessions, no guilt over being a freak in the eyes of the parish.

  But I was here, not in the lush farmlands of France suffering from a night of too much wine and cigarettes and love. Ah, the love! It flowed freely in France like the juice of the grape. Right? Sure it did. It had to, or all my fantasies would be crushed like a Cuban cigar under a millionaire’s heel.

  Chancing another peek, I saw Khalid on his knees now. Then, smoothly, as if the move had been made countless times, he bowed forward, his hands, nose, and forehead on his red prayer mat. Once more I jerked back. This time I slid down the tree, the scraggly bark scratching my bare back. It was then that I figured out he was a Muslim. I’d seen images on the internet of Muslim people in prayer. I sat there, barefooted and bare-chested, and thought long and hard if my knowledge that Khalid was a different religion than I was made me feel differently about him. Did his being Muslim make him any less handsome or personable? No. It did not. Even now the thought of that smile, his perfectly made nose, and those muscular calves made heat ignite low in my belly.

  My mother calling to us entered the soft ruminations of Khalid’s long tan legs in those damp shorts yesterday. Had he pulled them on over his wet skin? Or had he been rushed and tugged his shorts up over his wet swim trunks. I pictured the pool and everyone in it and felt envy. I’d never be able to force my way close to the pool to see him seated above the water, skin greasy with lotion, dark eyes behind even darker shades, his upper body uncovered and soaking up the sun. Pools were major stressors because of the…yep…water.

  “Why is there a mattress out here?”

  I jumped, babbled something about snoring and restless brother syndrome, and looked at my mother. She was in her robe and appeared to be more than a little cranky. Lack of coffee was what she always claimed her grumpiness in the morning was due to.

  “Well, haul it back inside and sleep on the sofa tonight. A rabid raccoon could have come along and bitten you on the face.” She turned on her heel and went back into our room. James’s whining about getting up so early was floating outside. My mood shifted and when I glanced across the creek before going inside to get dressed for church, Khalid was gone, and I felt oddly disjointed.

  “Why do we have to go to church during vacation?” James was asking from under his covers as I was dragging the mattress back into our room.

  “Because I said so,” Mom replied then asked if anyone knew when the lodge kitchen opened for breakfast. That coffee monster had her tight in its grip.

  I grabbed some clean clothes and padded past the lump in the top bunk and made my way to the bathroom to shower. I wanted to get washed and head back outside, with my laptop, and try to maybe do some journaling while the rest of the family stumbled around readying themselves for mass, wherever that was taking place. I didn’t recall passing any churches on the way here but then again, I’d not really been paying attention. Sulking really burned up your concentration data plan.

  I jotted random things down in my fat green journal. I’d personalized it a bit, covering the mundane cover with hand-painted rainbows, odd bugs, and self-motivational stickers that screamed out “I CAN & I WILL!” and “NEVER GIVE UP!” in an almost annoying way.

  Seated on the patio in dressy chinos, a white polo shirt, and loafers I could slide my feet into, I found the next blank page and started jotting down random thoughts. Many about Khalid. Most about Khalid to be honest. I tried my best to capture the rush of feelings and raw emotions I was experiencing.

  “Dane, it’s time to get to the lodge.”

  I glanced back at my father in the doorway of our room. He was dressed like I was. Chinos, polo, and leather loafers. His cross was gold, just like mine. Mom, it seemed, like this look for her men because James also was dressed similarly when we all met up on the front porch. Mom wore a white summer dress with short white sleeves, covered with small purple flowers. On her feet were slim little white sandals and, in her hand, a tiny white clutch. She also sported her cross—a gift for her communion from her father who was now dead. She took a moment to tug at our shirts, tried to pat down James’s hair, and ran her hands over my smooth cheeks.